


Condensation

by TheBraillebarian



Series: Florida [3]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27782803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraillebarian/pseuds/TheBraillebarian
Summary: Toki arrives in Florida for the second time.
Series: Florida [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031937
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Condensation

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've posted anything using only a screen reader. Please let me know if there are any egregious errors.

Notes ring sour in his ears and Toki’s hands fumble over the strings. He falls back against a brick wall rubbing at his temple. A passerby tosses a few bills into his open guitar case. The rain is letting up and his shirt is dry, as if he hadn’t been standing in the muggy afternoon damp a moment before.

“Whats…” he mumbles to himself.

It’s like he was dreaming and now he’s awake. There’s a sense of something big just out of reach, humming in his blood, fading with the awareness that comes from opened eyes. There’s something important he has to do…

The audition! “Shits! Am lates!”

Tossing the guitar in its case and slamming it shut, money jangling to the bottom, Toki throws the case over his back and sprints down the rain wet street. The sun begins to part the clouds.

…

A small group of guitarists huddle outside the warehouse. Their conversation is hushed but has an air of optimism to it. Toki freezes just outside the metal shutter, a doubled sense of déjà vu making his head spin. An edge of fear coils around his hopeful anticipation and he feels like he’s going to be sick. Why is he thinking about dog food?

“Hey,, buddy!” one of the guitarists from the huddle calls. “They’ll probably let you in if you knock.”

“Ja…” Toki shakes his head to clear it. “Thanks you.”

He pounds on the door with an open palm and waits.

…

Nobody mentions it but there’s a palpable sense of recognition between the five men.

When he squares off against Skwisgaar it feels almost like a script the two of them have memorized. Outside the little group of rejects clap and cheer at the performance.

“You guys are pretty good,” one says. “I’ll bow to your skill, guy. See you on stage!”

They walk into the sun and Toki starts to follow them on half an instinct when Skwisgaar says:

“Where ams you going? You’s heard them. Yous in the band, dildo.”

“Oh. Ja. That’s rights,” Toki says to himself and walks back into the warehouse.

…

Mordhaus, the apartment, is exactly how he remembers it. Which is surreal given that he’s never been here before. Carpet crunchy and weirdly mottled in places, the half broken fold out couch that hurts his back, smell of too many sweaty bodies and beer and weed. It’s wonderful. A knot in his belly eases when he walks through the door. He’s home.

…

Florida weather is miserable in an alien way. The humid heat is oppressive, sticking his clothes to his body and ensuring that his long hair is never quite dry. Nathan assures him it’s better in winter. Pickles tells him to just take his shirt off. Toki has the hem in his hands before that surreal sense of timing makes him stop. He rolls his shirt back down and stands in front of the wheezing cooler instead.

…

They go to the beach late in autumn when most of the crowds are gone. Toki has never seen the ocean yet there’s no magic to it. It feels like he should be more impressed. Instead he watches Nathan, who looks unaccountably dismayed. The big man stands at the water’s edge, waves pruning his toes.

“Where is she?” he mumbles into the wind.

“Who?”

He rubs his arms like he’s cold and walks away.

…

A storm cuts the power out and Toki is awake the instant his little nightlight sputters out. Quivering he shuffles into the nearest room.

“Pickle?” he whispers.

“Get in,” the short man pats his bed without any preamble, like they’ve known each other for years and not just months.

Lightning flashes and the body next to him shakes like a leaf. Toki wraps his arms around Pickles and tries not to feel the dark at his back. The walls rattle with an echoing boom.

“Didn’ts know you’s was afraid of the thunders,” Toki manages through chattering teeth. “How’s you plays the drums?”

“Ain’t the thunder,” Pickles says, tensing with another lightning flash. “It’s that. I can’t control it no more, don’t know when it’s gonna strike. Makes me nervous. What about you? Didn’t you grow up where it’s dark half the year or something?”

“Ja…” and he realizes that he’s only needed a nightlight since coming to Florida. “I won’ts tell the other guys, Pickle.”

“Don’t think they’ll care anymore.”

The two of them huddle in the dark and try to forget whatever it is that haunts them.

…

There’s always an excuse to go easy after a gig. They’re too old, partying so hard isn’t as much fun, the beer in this dump is piss. Whatever it is, none of them drink much beyond whatever they get for free. The money that isn’t spent on bills mostly finds its way into private accounts. What any of them is saving for none can say, but it feels important.

…

Nathan and Skwisgaar have gone to Jacksonville for some reason neither could articulate. Murderface has left to visit his mother, which feels wrong to all of them. It’s just Pickles and Toki taking up space in the living room. There’s some international memorial thing on the crappy old tv that neither one of them is paying attention to. Toki plays idly on his unplugged guitar while Pickles fidgets a rhythm at the other end of the couch. The memorial on tv is a pretty cool looking place, all gaudy black metal edged in spikes and red colored water that looks like blood.

A tired looking man in a suit wearing a glittering star like pendant is reading a eulogy. Pickles leaps to his feet at the same time as Toki’s guitar hits the floor.

“Charles!”

“Magnus!”

They shout in unison.

“Holy shit!” Pickles grabs at his balding head.

“We needs a planes ticket!”

Pickles grabs him by the arm so hard it leaves bruises. They bolt out the door, not bothering to pack. Whatever they need they can come back for.

…

In coach somewhere over the Atlantic Pickles chuckles.

“Whose apartment’ve we been living in?” he asks. “Pretty sure that shithole ain’t been ours for at least ten years.”

Toki laughs nervously as time makes one more lurch around them. It’s just enough to ensure they’ll get to Mordland, or what’s left of it, right on time.


End file.
